Footsteps
by Anna10
Summary: Abby POV."Maybe you’re waiting for him to come back, maybe you’re trying to accumulate the strength to go after him, or maybe it’s something else"


Author's note: No spoilers (not that I've seen past #4 anyway). All I will say is that Carter and Abby have been together for a year/six months, some sort of extended period of time, but it's not even really essential to know that.

Disclaimer: Yeah, I just need the 'Rocket' Romano doll with detachable arm, and I've got the set. ;)

The gentle but stingingly cold breeze flowing steadily from the partially open window, and the definite thudding of footsteps down the stairs are all you're vaguely aware of in that moment. You think about moving, but your feet have sprung roots, and are now part of the ground, part of the floor of your apartment. They feel safe there. It's been 22 seconds since the door slammed behind him, and you weren't even aware you were counting. So, you stare at the wooden frame, stupefied, for a while. Maybe you're waiting for him to come back, maybe you're trying to accumulate the strength to go after him, or maybe it's something else. You're not sure, but you stay there anyway. Sighing, and expertly brushing back locks of hair from your cheeks, you feel hot fingers brushing past salty tears, droplets beginning to form sticky puddles on your face. Funny. You didn't know you were crying either.

It's then that you realise your hair is a sticky mess, so you slowly pull yourself away from the spot you've stood in for what must have been at least 5 minutes, and pad towards the shower, turning it on and waiting for the stream of water to become hot. Wisps of steam floating past you and clinging to the mirror indicate that it's probably ready, and you pull off your robe, stepping in, and gasping for a moment as the water burns at your back. You would get out, or move away, but you think you probably deserve the pain for the moment.

Pulling the band out of your hair, you sigh softly and tilt your head back, soaking it and sending warm droplets down your face, washing away whatever it was you were crying. Your thoughts turn to five minutes ago.

***************

_'I don't need it. I don't.'_

_'Need what? What don't you need?'_

_'This. **You**. I don't need you here t-'_

'Me?' The look you both shared confirmed it, but the hurt in his voice was more than evident, and you didn't get to say anything else before he turned and left. In one hurting, heart-breaking instant. The door slammed unforgiving behind him, and you found your voice three seconds too late.

***************

The water's cold now, so you've probably been in long enough, but it's more of an effort to get out than it was to get in. Same with most of life, you get into things quickly, spontaneously, and spend the rest of your life trying to distance yourself, untangle yourself from them. But this one was different. Before you'd realised, you were in too deep, and it's never once crossed your mind to get out. Why chop off your arm when you need it?

I don't need it.

The towel is wrapped firmly around your body, engulfing you, but you still shiver slightly. You wonder why he didn't call your bluff; of course you need him, you're part of him, and you're all of this because you want to be. He knows you didn't mean it, because he knows you love him. He's told you he loves you, you've told_…well, you didn't tell him, but it's obvious_, you reason with yourself.

He should know.

Walking back into the kitchen, pulling the robe firmly back around you, you look around the apartment. Weathered couch, still there, vase of wilting flowers standing proudly where they've been for nearly two weeks, two dirty coffee mugs still sitting on the bench side by side, a ring of sticky brown liquid accumulating round the bottom of each. But it feels empty. Dead.

You shake your head, annoyed at yourself. This isn't the first night you've been alone, not even the first night you've been alone this week. And it won't be the last, but it still feels uneasy. Glancing over to the window and seeing tiny crystal flakes float down past you, you sigh sadly. Part of you expected him back by now.

Moving further towards the mesmerising flecks of white, a fuller picture begins to form, the streets coated in a flimsy carpet of white, glistening under a lone working street lamp, only disturbed by a few odd footprints imprinted into it, and two lone tire treads. His tire treads? No, you turn, and his jeep's still sitting there, as much a part of the view from the window now as the shop opposite you that sells those tacky heart shaped cookies, or the empty house with the cracking window panes further down the street.

A single, perfect snowflake lands in front of you, and you idly reach out a finger, tracing it into the glass, imprinting it there. So you'd remember it. Some things are beautiful, but far too easily forgotten about.

The phone rings sharply behind you, and you jump, then chew your lip, wondering whether to answer. You seem to decide quickly, and lift the receiver to your ear, offering a croaky greeting.

"Hello?"

"Abby?"

"Umm, yeah, who else would I be?"

Susan giggles at this, seemingly contemplating something. "You sounded a little…butcher than normal. I thought maybe Carter had got squeakier."

Snorting slightly down the phone, you leave the window to pick up his tie from the couch, and twirl it through your fingers before folding it neatly. All too slowly you catch yourself doing this, and cringe inwardly. "What you want?"

"Huh?"

"I assume you didn't ring just to hear my mannish voice," you crack, with little humour.

"I actually wanted Carter, to swap my shift Tuesday – he there?"

"Umm, no. You ring his cell?"

"No. The guy's not that in demand Abby, he's at the hospital, or at your place, I just assumed he'd be with you. Always is," she offers, as if it were obvious.

_Always is. Well, when he can bring himself to talk to me, _you moan selfishly to yourself, unsure of exactly why you expect him to be there after the parting shot you gave him. You try to remember the exact moment you returned to being this fine mixture of jaded and bitter, an emotion you haven't felt for so long. You realise you're moving steadily backwards. Susan senses the silence. "You're not _fighting_ are you?" she scoffs lightly.

"Nooo."

"No," she doesn't believe you, but she humours you anyway. "I've got to get back to work, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Mmm. Bye."

"Bye."

You put the phone back down thoughtfully, and catch sight of his folded tie again, stopping briefly on your path to the bedroom to throw it messily back over the chair.

*********  
Three long minutes later, and you still can't sleep. The bed's cold, the silence is creepy, and even the snow can't distract you any longer. Your mind wanders across the room, to the bottle of wine standing happily on the dresser. It's something Mrs Muhler in six sent over to thank you for feeding her cats. And you're not sure why you didn't just get rid of it. If you did, tonight would have happened differently.

*******************

_'You coming to bed?' you pout, patting the mattress beside you._

_He stops midway to the bathroom to catch your lips in his, stealing a kiss before biting your lip playfully, and continuing his course to the bathroom._

_'Ow!'_

_'That **hurt** you?' he asks mockingly._

_You nod your head, rising up onto your knees, catching the glimmer that begins to form in his eyes. He doesn't move, and you roll your eyes, sticking your face out slightly further, and repeating yourself. 'Ow.'_

_He gets the message this time, because he's back by the bed in three strides, taking your face in his hands and kissing it better. Kissing it all better. You begin to slide your hands across his blue T-shirt, which ripples under your palms. 'Ab-by,' he breathes between quicker kisses._

_'Mmm?' You take the opportunity to bite his bottom lip in retaliation, and begin to suck it into your mouth, claiming it as yours, but he doesn't respond this time, and you lean back slightly, studying his face. He looks a little in shock. Reaching out a hand, you trace down the side of his jaw, committing it to memory. Well, more than it already was. 'What?'_

_You can tell he's hurt from his eyes alone, the glimmer you caught before sunken, and you trail his eyes over to the dresser, a sudden realisation dawning. You close your eyes tightly, wishing it away, but when you open them again, it's still there. You don't think you've ever seen him so hurt. 'You're drinking again?'_

_'No, no –it's,'_

'You're drinking again,' he repeats, this time speaking it like a fact. You wish he wouldn't do that. He silently leaves the room, and you follow him, unsure of why this is happening.

***************  
Climbing out of the bed, you practically march over to the dresser, grabbing the bottle, and continue on to the kitchen, where you drop it into the trash, the place it should have been dropped hours ago. Then you follow his last footsteps over to the bench, where you pick up the remnants of the wine you gave Mrs Muhler, and throw the glass into the sink. It's probably broken, but you can't find it in you to care. Your eyes further scan the room. Still empty. Still cold.

***************

_'Hey,' you call gently. 'HEY.' He turns round to face your glare. 'I said I hadn't drunk it.'_

_'It's half empty,' he points out, gesturing immaturely._

_'It's a glass empty,' you correct him, and take a breath to speak again, but he cuts you off._

_'So you had a glass then.' His questions are no longer questions, just cold statements, judgements that serve to make you madder._

_'I haven't drunk any of it, I **told** you, I-'_

'You drunk now?' It was a cheap shot, and he seems to realise that, because he hangs his head a little. 'You were going to sleep with me when you were drunk?' he asks in a whisper. This conversation was getting more and more bizarre.

_'Yeah, that's the only time I want you,' you tell him, throwing your arms in the air, and bringing them back down to rest on your hips. His head snaps up, a mixture of anger and hurt, and he heads for the door again. 'Joke!' you protest, frustrated, grabbing his arm and turning him back round to you. He doesn't deserve an explanation, but you give him one anyway. 'Mrs Muhler brought it round. To say thank you for feeding Jess and Jake,' you continue, searching him for some sign of recognition._

_He just nods. 'And you drank it. Fine, Abby, I just… you promised you wouldn't hide from me. And this,' he punctuates his sentence with a confident nod in the direction of the bedroom, 'is hiding.'_

_You're trying not to be angry, but it's welling up inside of you, waiting to snap. How long can an argument over nothing go on for? You try again. 'Mrs Muhler…' you stop when you realise he's still heading for the door, stopping on his way to pick up an empty wine glass, dregs from the liquid swilling round the bottom. He holds it aloft triumphantly, like it's a trophy. Congratulations. Your girlfriend is a useless drunk._

_'Mrs Muhler?' he asks condescendingly, waiting for you to continue._

_And he does it. He walks over that line inside of you, and you snap, not caring about explaining anymore. 'I don't need this!'_

_'What?' he asks, eyes narrowing in confusion._

_'I don't need it. I don't.'_

_'Need what? What don't you need?'_

_'This. **You**. I don't need you here t-'_

_'Me?'_

*******************

And the weirdest thing is, that you don't understand why you didn't shout at him that it wasn't you who'd drunk it. Bang it into his head. Tell him that you were being polite, and had offered _her_ some, but that you'd feigned a headache and had soda. The more he pushed, the more you backed away. Moving backwards again. If he wants it to be true, then maybe it should be. You really wouldn't want to disappoint him.

You wish you weren't this destructive. Wish you didn't assume he'd know things. Standing alone in the middle of the room, shivering in his robe, you realise that he can't know these things until you tell him. He's caring, he's generous, loving and supportive, but he's not a mind reader.

Your trainers are standing next to the door, and you contemplate going after him. Part of you is still screaming that he should be the one to come back, but a larger part is telling you that someone has to make the first move, and after the certainty with which you told him he was expendable, it really should be you.

Perhaps it's this unselfish realisation, or perhaps it is selfish; it's the fact that you know he's not coming back tonight, and you have to fight because you want him there with you, but within two minutes you change into sweats, pull a warm coat around yourself, and grab your keys, before slamming the door in much the same manner as him. You take a moment to chuckle. This door has taken some beatings in the past.

Hurried footsteps sound round the stairwell, as you make your way down to the main door, and you take a deep breath before daring to walk outside. The wind greets you in a hostile manner, wet hair splattering against your now bitterly cold cheeks, making a resounding smacking noise, and fingers immediately freezing at the touch of the railing. It's still snowing. "Shit!" you grumble to no-one.

The chuckle behind you is unmistakable, but the wisps of smoke coming from his mouth are unusual. "They'll kill you," you point out, taking a seat tentatively beside him, and snatching the cigarette from his hand, the nicotine welcome to the back of your throat.

He takes it back from you. "It's mine," he points out.

"You don't smoke."

"I'm not usually this stressed." You let it hang between you for a while with the gentle smell of ash, both speechless, watching the flakes continuing to tumble on their route to earth. Looking over to his profile, you break the silence first. "You came back."

He turns and smiles sheepishly, a slight bitter twinge in his voice. "Never left."

"You sat out here in the cold?"

"Yeah."

"And the lobby wouldn't have been a better place?"

He shakes his head, laughing. "Honestly? I didn't even think of that." He takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing it slowly into the distance, choking a little when he starts to chuckle again. You laugh too now, partially amazed that someone with an MD could lack so much common sense, and partially relieved you seem to be speaking again. _Any contact's good contact. _You cringe inwardly again, disbelieving that you just thought that. Dependency scares you like that.

You grab the cigarette again, grinding it into the step, ignoring his feeble protests. "Not a good look for you," you offer by way of explanation, and his lips curl slightly. Then you take a deep breath. "I'm sorry." His head snaps up. Words that aren't a huge part of your vocabulary, but you know well enough to know when you're wrong, and someone, probably Maggie in one of her more sane moments, once told you that apologising when you knew you were wrong was the hardest thing you'd ever do. You angle his face, to make sure he is looking at you. "I didn't drink it. I gave Mrs Muhler a glass when she came over, but I didn't have any, I…"

You look up to him, and he nods in coherence, with the good grace to look embarrassed. His eyes close, and he shakes his head. "No. **I'm** sorry Abby." He twists his hands into each other for a while, as words seem to fail him, but you're feeling braver tonight, and you take one of them, intertwining it with yours. He gazes back at you, a small pool forming at the bottom of his right eye. He tries again. "I can't explain why I didn't…I don't know why I acted like that," he corrects himself. "I just…" he looks down at your hands, breathes in deeply and speaks quickly, "I want you to be happy, and I'm not sure I'm doing that right." He searches your eyes for some inkling that you understand, that he's making sense, and seems to find it, because he continues. "I want to be enough for you, and if you're still drinking, it's like I'm not enough. And that scares me, because," he pauses for a moment, and you hold your breath, feeling slightly nervous for a reason you can't quite ascertain. "Because you're it for me." There it is, your reason to be nervous. The words hit you, and you feel elated and scared all in the same breath. 'It' is a lot to live up to. He's still talking, and you tune back in. "You're not just enough, you're **it**, and," unwilling to talk anymore, you cup his face into your hands, and seal his declaration with a sweet and tender kiss, clinging to him. His shoulders relax from their previously tense state, and he lets out a breath, smiling back at you. Then he reaches out a hand to pull something from your hair. "Snowflake," he shrugs.

"You're it," you shoot back, before it's even formed a coherent thought in your head, and before you can think long enough to give in to one of the million and one reasons you shouldn't say it. "I love you," you tell him, staring straight into his eyes, which widen as you speak, and biting on your lip for fear that it had just become very serious. But if you're honest with yourself, you know it became serious too long ago for you to remember the exact moment. Not that you need to.

It dawns on you that the last person you said this to was Richard. You meant it, and he meant it, but it hadn't been like this; with this man staring intensely at you, grinning like a maniac and hungrily massaging your lips with his, you realise it meant that little bit more that you'd never had with other boyfriends. You part briefly, but the cold stings your lips, and, giggling a little, you return to the warmth of his mouth, his fingers tangling through your hair and tugging their path gently, the only other thing you're aware of.

Smiling into the kiss, you pull back, feigning hurt. He plays along. "What?"

"You didn't say it back."

"Say what back."

"John-"

He shrugs wickedly. "Now you know how I feel." He motions between the two of you. "This is the first time you've said this."

"I know," you laugh, shaking your head.

"Well shut up and let me enjoy it," he winks, pulling you back to him.

You smile and pull back again. "Seriously," you giggle in between kisses.

"You know I love you Abby."

"Sometimes a girl needs to hear it though…"

He just raises his eyebrows, fully aware of the irony of that last statement, but he doesn't call you on it. Instead he offers a hand and pulls you to your feet, making his way to the main door, and you let him lead you for once, his thumb rubbing over your now numb fingers, your footsteps meshing together in the snow, making a familiar sound you can't quite pinpoint.

You smile secretly to yourself, squeezing his hand.

Moving forwards.

A/N: Review's are a girl's best friend!


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